


Nobody visits graveyards on Halloween

by republic



Category: The Graveyard Book - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Crueltide, Death, Gen, Halloween, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Original Character(s), suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 05:41:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8878129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/republic/pseuds/republic
Summary: ...and they certainly don't expect company if they do.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nahnahnahnah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahnahnahnah/gifts).



The young man wrapped his scarf round his neck, left his room, descended the slightly uneven staircase of the house he shared with half a dozen other students, and headed out into the night. It was a cold night, and a foggy one. The fog seemed to smother the lights of the city. It was Halloween, and Bod was hoping he might see a ghost.

Since he left the little graveyard on the hill, Bod hadn't seen a single ghost. He had, however, achieved a decent set of A-levels, and started a history degree. Somehow, inhabiting the past was still a little easier than dealing with the present; he got on well enough with his housemates, but none of them were particularly close friends.

The graveyard was a mile or so out of town, down a little lane. The gates were locked, although not so high as to be particularly hard to climb, and Bod stood by them for a few minutes. When he was a child, he had the Freedom of the Graveyard, and locked gates were an irrelevance to him. Then, as he'd grown older, he'd lost those abilities. But Halloween seemed like the one day of the year when one might expect to see a ghost, and Bod thought it was worth a try. He looked around, and realised that he'd not noticed how dark it was; there were no street-lights, but he could see just fine. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and _leaned_ into the gate.

Bod passed through the gates like smoke, and his heart leapt as he opened his eyes to see he was inside the graveyard. He practically skipped up the path, curving round the disused chapel, past a pair of ancient yews, and sat down on a bench. For the first time in a while, he felt truly at home. It was a still night, and the fog muffled the sounds of the city beyond the graveyard walls.

James Bethune-Baker (1861 - 1951 _And yet shew I unto you a more excellent way_ ) walked slowly up the path towards Bod. Bod, who remembered what his parents had taught him of manners, stood as he approached.

"Good evening, sir"

Professor Bethune-Baker was briefly surprised at being greeted by one of the living, but swiftly regained his composure.

"And a good evening to you, too. You seem, well, rather unsurprised by seeing a ghost, even on the eve of All Saints'?"

"Actually, I was rather hoping I might; I had the Freedom of the Graveyard when I was younger, you see..."

"Nobody Owens? Well, I am pleased to meet you! Revd Professor Bethune-Baker, though do please call me James. Are you, perhaps, an undergraduate now?"

"I am, yes, reading history."

"I do hope you find it interesting; I greatly enjoyed my undergraduate studies, Classics and Theology. Though I dare say things have changed rather since then. Anyhow, if you'll excuse me, I was on my way to meet Father Burnaby for one of our regular discussions on Augustine."

"Of course, of course."

The professor doffed his cap to Bod, and was gone.

The peace of the evening was disturbed by the rattling of the graveyard gate. Bod heard rather unsteady steps coming up the path, and Faded. Shortly, a young man came into view, lighting his way with his mobile phone. He was wearing New Rocks, black leather trousers, a worn Sisters of Mercy t-shirt, and a trenchcoat. Even Bod could recognise him as a goth. He was clearly quite drunk, and had been crying. For a moment, it looked as though he was going to follow the path round towards Bod's bench, but then he kept going straight where the path curved towards the chapel, and staggered off into another part of the graveyard. Bod breathed a sign of relief, and relaxed again. Drunk people were tiresome at the best of times.

A few minutes later, Professor Bethune-Baker returned, looking a little agitated.

"Ah, Nobody. I was hoping you were still here. I was wondering if you would be prepared to help with a pastoral matter."

"A pastoral matter? I'm not really a people person."

"Yes, you see there's a rather distressed young man over by the chapel, and even if he could see the residents, I'm not sure he would find us very comforting."

"You mean that goth? Isn't he just drunk?"

"Well, yes, he is somewhat inebriated. But I think his distress is due to more than an excess of alcohol. I fear he may do something _foolish_."

"Err...?"

"Really, if you could go and speak to him, it would be a kindness. Don't pass by on the other side."

Bod sighed, and stood up. Without really thinking about it, he made himself walk silently across the graveyard. The young man wasn't hard to find, sat propped up against a long-illegible headstone, muttering to himself. Bod stopped a little distance away, and coughed gently to try and make himself known without being too startling. 

"Fuck!" The young man jumped to his feet, clutching a large vodka bottle. Bod had clearly failed. 

"Err, sorry if I startled you."

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

"I came here for a little peace and quiet. Long story, but I find graveyards calming. Then, well, you seemed unhappy, so I thought I should come and see how you were. I'm Bod."

"Bod? What kind of name is that?!?" The vodka bottle was brandished, as if to emphasise the point.

"It's short for Nobody, which isn't all that usual a name, either. Like I say, it's a long story, and not a very interesting one."

"Fucking stupid name." He seemed to relax a little. After a brief pause, "I'm Mark. Not short for anything, just Mark."

"Pleased to meet you", Bod nodded his head in greeting.

"You're a bit of a weirdo, aren't you?" Mark laughed, perhaps a little surprised at himself, "Which is saying something, coming from a goth!"

"You're not the first to make that observation. Would you like to sit down again?"

Bod took his own advice. After a moment, so did Mark. He took another swig of vodka. Bod wondered how best to proceed.

"I don't mean to pry," he began, "but would you mind my asking what brings you here this evening?"

Mark took another drink. Bod let the silence stretch out between them.

"I came here to drink a lot of vodka," Mark had another drink, and then added, less assertively, "and then take a lot of paracetamol."

There was an awkward pause.

"Well," Bod began hesitantly, "What you do is up to you, but I hope you won't take it amiss if I try and dissuade you from this course of action. What sorry state of affairs brings you to this pass?"

"It's my boyfriend. Was my boyfriend. He's dead. Knocked off his bike by a bus on his way to lectures."

"I'm very sorry to hear that. Err..."

"It happened at the beginning of term. He wasn't really out to his parents, but I think they'd guessed, so they told me I couldn't go to his funeral. Today would have been 2 years since we started dating. I can't face carrying on without him, and I can't talk to anyone about it - my parents basically disowned me when I came out." Mark took another slug of vodka. 

"How horrible." Bod paused. "The professor was right to be concerned for you."

"The professor? What are you on about?"

"Oh, um. Do you believe in ghosts?"

"No." Mark sought comfort in the bottle once more. "But, I think I saw one earlier."

Bod sighed in relief. "The ghost you saw was one of the residents here; he asked me to see how you were doing; I think he was worried about you."

"Wait, you're telling me not only that I really did see a ghost, but that that ghost then told you to come and check on me? You, who just happened to be sat in this graveyard on Halloween?"

"Roughly, yes. You see, my parents died when I was a baby, and I was brought up in a graveyard, by ghosts. So yes, the ghost you saw did come and talk to me, and that's why I came to speak with you."

Mark eyed the bottle suspiciously. "You're not a ghost, are you? I know I'm shitfaced, but really this isn't making much sense"

"Oh, no, I'm not a ghost, I'm very much alive. Do you want to know what I learned from being brought up by ghosts?"

"How to vanish and scare the fuck out of people?"

"Aside from that."

Mark gave Bod a look. And himself some more vodka. "Go on, then."

"The dead showed me how much potential there is to being alive. As you remarked earlier, I am a bit of a weirdo. Even in this city full of eccentrics, I don't really fit in, and find normal people hard to relate to. But the dead are, well, _dead_. Some of them sleep, and some of them are more lively and you might see them as ghosts, but they are all dead. They don't change. They can't change. Certainly, 'age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn', but nor do they grow or develop, nor anything like that. Their story is ended, and they've left the stage."

Mark sniffed, and wiped away a tear. Bod pressed on.

"I am very sorry for your loss, and regret even more that you've not been able to grieve as would be proper. And nothing I can say or do will take that hurt away. But even if being alive is no fun at all, it carries huge potential. I'm not going to tell you it'll be better tomorrow, or next term, or next year. But it might be. You're young, and smart, and have great boots. Your story still has a long way to run, and maybe the next chapter will be better than this one."

"Is that your pitch? 'No promises, but it might get less shit than this'? Is that really a reason to carry on?"

"It might not make a great slogan, but it's at least honest. I can promise the sun will rise in the morning, but not much more than that. I think spending so much time with the dead showed me that you want to do as much living as you can before you join them - if nothing else, it gives you more stories to tell. Give yourself time to mourn your boyfriend, maybe find a way to mark his passing. But somehow, find a way to keep living. There's time enough to be dead later"

Mark laughed, despite himself. "Never take a job in sales."

Bod gave him a wry grin "Leave the pills behind, and it's a deal"

"I don't get it. You don't know me from Adam, I clearly disturbed your quiet evening, and yet here you are trying to stop me killing myself. What gives?"

"I must admit, partly it's that the late Revd Professor Bethune-Baker reminded me of the parable of the Good Samaritan." Bod sighed. "But really, what I said is true. Life has dealt you a terrible hand recently, and I appreciate why you would want to call it a day. But some happenstance has brought us together this evening, so why don't we both make the best of it?"

Mark drank the last of his vodka, and peered at the empty bottle. He got to his feet, rather unsteadily.

"Well," he said, "What do I do now?"

"I suggest", Bod said gently, "you leave all this behind. You'll find the graveyard gates are open when you get to them, so make your way home, drink some water, and sleep until your hangover has gone away. Beyond that, for whatever my advice might be worth, take each day as it comes. Give yourself time and space to grieve, but also start looking to the future. And good luck."

Mark looked at Bod oddly. "Will I remember any of this tomorrow? I know I'm off my tits now, I'm not entirely sure you're not a figment of my imagination..."

"I don't know. I don't think it matters."

Bod moved to clear Mark's path, and gestured the way Mark should go.

Mark picked up his plastic bag, and looked inside it. He looked up at Bod, paused for a moment, and then put the bag down again, decisively.

"Can you deal with that for me, please?"

"Certainly."

Mark, still holding the now-empty vodka bottle waved at Bod and then weaved towards the graveyard entrance. As Bod has promised, the gates were open when he got there, and he didn't look back to see them close silently behind him.

Bod picked up the carrier bag, sighed, and returned to his bench. He sat down, and the graveyard was quiet once more. 

After a time, Professor Bethune-Baker came and set next to him.

"That was well and kindly done, Nobody Owens. Thank you."

"It wasn't really what I expected, coming here on Halloween. I just thought it might be a chance to remember what it was like growing up, when I had the Freedom of the Graveyard. I still don't really fit in among the living, and the rest of the year I can't fit in with the dead, either."

"I think you fitted admirably with both this evening. And while young Mark will probably not remember any of this except perhaps as a dream, perhaps you will remember your ministry this evening next time you feel you cannot fit in with the living."

"I don't know. I hope you're right, though"

The ghost stood up.

"God bless you, Nobody Owens. Go now in peace, and perhaps I will see you again next year"

Bod didn't know what to say to that. But as he headed back to his room, there was a certain lightness to his step.

**Author's Note:**

> I was thinking about Bod's oddness, his own sense of dislocation from where he grew up, and how he related to normal people, and this story came to mind on a dark and misty night in October. It's not very cheerful, I'm afraid.


End file.
